


An Ending More True

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [95]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Halloween, Horror, M/M, Old Married Couple, Post-Series, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Skeletons, Slow Build, Spirits, Squabbling, Supernatural Elements, To Be Continued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:00:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5120879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to somewhat unfortunate decisions, Dean has been placed on crutches for three weeks. He loses his crutches privileges quickly, because Sam has no time for Dean jabbing him in the ass every time he walks past.</p><p>Their lives are changing once again--most of it in good ways.</p><p>Except for one afternoon, when Sam sees something he shouldn't in their home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ending More True

“What are you doing, Dean?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re sitting in the living room with a pair of scissors and construction paper. That doesn’t look like nothing to me.”

“Fine, then it’s _something_. Mind your own damn business. That better?”

“You know, if you’re grouchy because of your knee, it’s your own damn fault you’re on crutches for a week.”

“Oh, really? So it’s my fault your ass…”

“We had this discussion already, don’t make it worse.”

“You’re pushing it, Sasquatch.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yeah? I got a pair of scissors and you’ve needed a haircut for the last twenty years.”

“Just try it, small fry.”

“C’mere…!”

“Nope! Now let’s see, what could you possibly be doing with black construction paper?”

“Give it back! Dammit, Sam. Where are my fucking crutches?!”

“ _I_ have them for safekeeping when you couldn’t be trusted not to poke at my ass every time I walked by. You’re not making summoning spells, are you? We’ve talked about this—Elvis is dead. Let him go.”

“Excuse me, first of all, Elvis is not dead, he faked his death and you fucking know it. Second, they are _my_ crutches and if I wanna slap the junk in your trunk that’s my business. Third, if you rip something, no way am I going to your stupid parent’s day shit.”

“What are these? I mean… they look sort of like houses? But they also look like really pointy penises.”

“They’re not—Sam! They’re haunted houses!”

“…you’re cutting out haunted houses.”

“Yeah, what’s it to you?”

“Out of construction paper.”

“Fuck off.”

“On October first.”

“Fucking nosy little shit. This is just like the time I told you to stay out of my bag in Columbus.”

“Uh, no, it’s not.”

“Same exact thing.”

“I found your stash of Busty Asian Beauties in Columbus—which, by the way, we have also discussed. Let me remind you that it was not a shocker to me.”

“No, of course it wasn’t, because you’re the perfect angel who has never looked at porn.”

“I’ve seen porn.”

“The Food Channel.”

“That’s you!”

“Would you leave me alone?! Shoo! I’m a busy man!”

“Fine. Here I was, about to offer you hot cider and a blow job, followed by popcorn and a movie of your choice, but you know what? I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

“That’s right, you damn well better. A man needs his space and priva—wait. You were gonna blow me?”

“Yeah. Such a shame, too. I bought a bullet for my tongue.”

“A what?”

“This little thing. See? I just slip it on the tip of my tongue, then with the remote I switch it on. The package said it provides a ‘phenomenal vibrating sensation.’ But oh well, a man needs his space.”

“I… I mean… that thing can’t possibly work.”

“It does.”

“How do you know?”

Sam dips down, his mouth an inch from the shell of Dean’s right ear. In a husky, sultry tone, he murmurs, “I watch porn, Dean.”

“Liar,” Dean gasps.

“So? You’ll never know.” Sam taps Dean’s chin and walks away slowly, inwardly congratulating himself for wearing his awesome jeans today. Without needing to see the act, he knows Dean’s eyes are locked on his ass, staring at the sway and swing of his hips through dark, tight denim.

Halfway to the dining room, a cry rings out, desperate and slightly whiny.

“Sam, come back.”

Pleased, Sam pauses, turning around in one swift motion, his socks swiveling on the hardwood floor. He maintains his hands in his pockets and a smug smirk on his face. “Oh? Why?”

There is no way Dean would ever turn down a blow job. If they had been at the sinking of the Titanic, on a lifeboat or on the ship itself, Dean would’ve asked for one last blow. Of course, Sam would have objected, but ultimately done it; however, no one needs to know that.

Dean’s mouth skews to the left, which means he’s uncertain about his words. Or, equally as possible, he’s about to say something incredibly stupid. They both have long careers of stupid under their belts, but his older brother can’t bluff for shit, especially when a potential blow job lies on the line.

In a tiny, mouse-like voice, Dean asks, “Does it really work?”

“Guess you’ll never know.”

“We could find out.”

“Correction—you could have found out.”

“But…”

“Nope.”

“What a tease.” Dean folds his arms across his chest and huffs—the absolute portrait of a man wronged. “Do I have to tell you everything I do now?”

“Only when it could possibly involve construction paper summoning spells.”

“That was once!”

“Twice.”

“Well, one for Nixon, the other for Elvis.”

“Dean!”

“And you threw out my Ouija board.”

“Have our lives taught you nothing?”

“Not a god damn thing.”

“Obviously,” Sam mutters with a roll of his eyes. He sits down on the couch next to Dean, easing down carefully as not to jolt Dean’s knee around. Two weeks on crutches never seems long whenever the knee doctor has ordered it, but they’re only on day three. The effects of a limited mobility Dean have already begun to show.

Sighing for the hundredth time within these seventy-two hours, Sam mentions that the _last_ time Dean was seen cutting out construction paper, it was to superglue it onto Julio’s car.”

Dean snorts, still pleased with himself. “Yeah, that was great.”

“You spent hours cutting out spiders and bats.”

“Yep. Worth it.”

“Then you egged it.”

“Sammy, have our lives taught you nothing? Sheesh. Pay attention, kid. Egg is shit to clean off a car. And he should have never made it known he’s scared of spiders and bats. That’s like Indy telling the whole fucking world he’s scared of snakes. You just don’t do that.”

“He didn’t mention it, you paid one of the kids twenty bucks to find out.”

“Who squealed!”

“You are _not_ the only one with eyes and ears in this neighborhood.”

“If it was Marco, I’m gonna smack him with my crutches.”

“You don’t have crutches, Dean. I have them.”

“You won’t keep them forever.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Sam, you’d never let me waste away here on the couch.”

“Oh, yeah, you’d hate that.”

“My ass is asleep,” Dean whines, flopping over to the right, resting on Sam’s shoulder. “I’ve already made an ass groove on this side of the couch.”

“Too bad for your ass. Get off me.”

“No. Me get off.”

“Nice try, short stack.”

“Hmph. Not all of us can be walking redwoods, Paul Bunyan.”

“If I’m Paul, you’re Babe, my big blue ox, jerkface.”

“So clever, Sammy. You lie awake at night thinking that up?” The crinkles around Dean’s eyes stand out as he grins, clearly presenting a challenge.

Sam sniffs and flips his hair over his shoulder. “With the way _you_ snore I stay up all night writing novels.”

Brows furrowed, Dean huffs, “Shit, you sure showed me with a book line.”

“Stop summoning Elvis.”

“Make me.”

“He’ll make you. Spirits get testy. Again, this is nothing you don’t already know firsthand.”

“You’re assuming he’s dead and that’s your first mistake. Second mistake is even thinking that _I_ ,” Dean presses his right hand to the middle of his chest, “wouldn’t be able to handle Elvis—if he was dead, which he isn’t.” After a glance over at the clock hanging on the wall, Dean pokes Sam’s thigh. “Thought you had work today.”

So far, Sam has been juggling teaching part time at the University and working less hours at the firm. Juana burst into tears and screaming when Sam broke the news to her that he was quitting. She went from unbearable grief to overwhelming panic in a very short amount of time. In the end, Sam made it out of her office unscathed and with a promise that she would write any letter of recommendation he needed at the drop of a hat. She also promised to punch Dean in the throat the next time she saw him because she knew where the influence to leave originated.

He has one more week to wrap up work at the firm and pass on his cases to interns and the like.

Today, he was supposed to go in and pass out documents, then explain a case to the group. Instead, he took advantage of the telecom option on his laptop and emailed everything. He spoke for ten minutes over the webcam and addressed two questions, then sent his interns out to sink or swim. Such is the practice of nonprofit law.

By the time concluded his work in the office, he padded out and found Dean in his previous state of cutting paper with a pair of bright orange scissors.

“I took the day off,” Sam murmurs, his hand intuitively reaching over to Dean’s left thigh. He massages with care, the pressure of his fingers commencing lightly before circling down, kneading the knots of muscle there. Dean inhales sharply, then sighs.

With his head still on Sam’s shoulder, Dean speaks in a soft mutter. “Can I have some soup?”

“Yeah,” Sam replies, his mouth surrounded by tawny, graying hair. “Tomato?”

“Chicken.”

“Noodles or rice?”

“Noodles.”

 

While consuming two bowls of hot chicken noodle soup, Dean doesn’t complain once.

It seems like a miracle.

Sam sits beside him on the couch, mindful of the tray propped over Dean’s lap, and flips through the weekly bundle of ads and coupons that has appeared in their mailbox yet again. The television turns on without the aid of a remote—Sam knows that can’t be good for the television no matter what Dean says—but it shuts off ten minutes later so Sam can read aloud the grocery store specials.

Squash is on sale at the mercado on Ashland. But is it yellow squash or spaghetti squash? Spaghetti. No, thank you. Squash is squash. Says the culinary gourmet who heated up two cans of soup. Yes, the culinary gourmet who heated up two cans of soup for the currently immobile person on the couch who also has no control over whether or not spit or a hunk of belly button lint gets mixed into that soup.

…are tomatoes on sale?

Turning the recycled pages of flimsy advert paper, Sam finds that three local places have tomatoes on sale but it all depends on which kind they want. Beefsteak? Roma? Plum? Organic? Conventional?

Half an hour passes this way. Dean’s right thigh rests against Sam’s left. From knee to shoulder they sit on the couch. Sam interrupts this fusion only to grab a blanket from the neighboring couch. Their San Marcos blanket stays in their room, while the red crocheted blanket conducts business in the living room.

“I miss Cat,” Dean mutters once Sam sits back down, the blanket spread over both their laps. “She was a furnace.”

“If you’re that cold, I can turn on the heater.”

“Are you crazy? It’s not even November.”

“This has nothing to do with my mental state, Dean. Like I said, if you’re that cold I can turn on the heater.”

Grunting, Dean shifts around, handing the tray back to Sam. Not a single noodle remains in either bowl. Sam sips the last of some broth from the second bowl, then sets the tray down on the floor.

“Stop,” he snips, taking one pillow from behind him and placing it behind Dean instead. “There. Quit moving your knee around so much.”

“My ass is asleep.”

“Do you want Cat to come fix that too?”

“Yes, yes I do. She wouldn’t talk back to me like your ungrateful face.”

“Well nuts to you. Kevin needed the company.”

“Did he need _my_ cat?”

“She warmed up to him the last time he swung by.”

“Fuck, I can’t get…”

“…just stop…”

“But I… argh!”

“Here! Let me…!”

“No, I tried that!”

“You did not, just stay still.”

“Don’t… ow!”

“I told you—stay still.”

“Yeah? Thanks, thank you so much for that. This couch is too fucking small!”

“You wanted the love seat! I wanted the wrap around.”

Hands in the air, Dean scoffs, “Oh, well, let’s get the wrap around then! Let’s make this place look ten times smaller than it is because Sammy’s always right!”

Three days.

It’s only been three days.

The real miracle is how Sam hasn’t walked out of the house and checked himself into a five star hotel for three weeks. Or wheeled Dean over to Mrs. Martinez’s door and deposited him there for her to take care of. But that would be cruel. No one deserves to put up with Dean in this state of cranky. No one except Sam, it seems.

“Would you _please_ calm your ass down?” Sam snaps. He grabs Dean’s legs and hauls them over onto his lap, ignoring the yelp of surprise and pain from his brother. Next, Sam grabs a pillow from Dean’s side and stuffs it under Dean’s left knee. He then readjusts the blanket, but slips his hands below.

“What are you…?”

“Shut up.”

“But…”

“Zip it, or I stop.”

They’ve never been particularly affectionate with each other. Life in the Impala never allowed for more than glances or the occasional brush of fingertips. The bathrooms at rest stops provided a dangerous yet potential space to fuck, but that’s exactly what happened—they kissed some, pet a little, and then got right to it. Even during the summers when John left for weeks at a time without looking back, they didn’t lay in bed reading sonnets to each other.

Sometimes, over musty blankets and across deadbeat pillows, Dean would brush his fingers through Sam’s hair, tracing the slope of his cheek, memorizing the curve to his lips.

But it was never…

They just never had the time.

Dean’s hands are always warm. Sam’s are always cold. He braces himself for the initial reaction to his frosty fingertips, slipping his hand underneath Dean’s Henley. Dean flinches, the muscles in his stomach jumping, but he settles, his breathing timed.

Touch can be healing.

It can also be triggering.

This is a tender place. And Sam’s not sure if it hurts sometimes. He hasn’t read vibrations of pain from here, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

Sam’s fingers glide over to a soft patch of hair the color of vanilla macaroons in the bakery four blocks away. He scratches here, then skims up, until his palm descends and circular motions begin. Within seconds, Dean’s eyes are closed and he goes lax in the pile of pillows behind him. His breathing slows, no longer so calculated, and each deep inhale provides elevation to Sam’s hand. Each steady exhale marks a gentle descent.

Rub clockwise.

Rub counterclockwise.

Long lashes frame freckled cheeks. Sam applies the gentlest pressure, kneading just enough to provide comfort. The skin is soft here. Softer than almost anywhere. Although Dean never joins Sam on any morning run or exercise, the extra layer of padded warmth is endearing. Signs of the hunting physique Dean possessed when they were in their twenties can still be seen. Sam’s just not as interested in them. He prefers Dean this way—warm, comfortable, and relaxed.

Taken care of.

The television isn’t on and the blanket should be enough to keep them warm.

On the other side of the coffee table—the side Dean didn’t prop his leg on—there’s a newspaper, a mug of cold coffee, a bottle of Aleve, and Dean’s set of keys to the house. Nearby, on the longer couch, one of the books Sam has been trying to work through before next Friday splays out, pages open. Clutter doesn’t rule their house, but it’s apparent that the two people who live here truly live here.

Within a few minutes, Dean falls asleep.

Sam follows, dozing, dreaming, deciding to keep his hand where it is.

 

Day four heralds the return of Dean’s crutches so he can go get the mail from the end of the driveway.

Although hesitant to allow such an event, Sam relents, ultimately agreeing that actually, yes, some sun and fresh air might do Dean some good. This also permits Sam at least ten minutes of alone time in the house.

Once his brother evades the most dangerous part of the journey—the one step down from the porch to the sidewalk—Sam swoops into action. He picks up the old newspaper, stuffing it under his arm as he then proceeds to gather up various pill bottles the color of butterscotch, filled with pills that also remind him of candy. One of the bottles contains a low dose of blood pressure medicine. Yet another rattles whenever Sam moves, reminding him to refill the prescription for Dean’s cholesterol. The last two remaining bottles are painkillers and allergy meds, the latter Dean puts up a fight about taking as it is the newest script and they go through this every time.

Sam deposits the maraca-like collection of bottles into a small, violet bin that he places in the corner of the coffee table once it’s cleared of other assorted papers.

Life before never included so much paper. Records were never kept, bills never given notice—hell, Sam never truly experienced the concept of a postal service until Stanford. When they moved in, Sam was convinced that their lives would remain as sparse as ever, and that they would retain the exact same amount of stuff as had fit in the Impala.

He organizes two slim paperback Sudoku books that Dean refuses to acknowledge are his. Then three glossy issues of Classic Cars America, one somber copy of National Geographic, and—Sam sighs—one malignant printing of Maxim. Sam places one of the car magazines up top, because what if they had company? At least the Nat Geo gives off the impression that their household is fairly well-read, even if one half of it is loath to admit it.

Stepping around the table, the next mission is clear: the couch.

A metric ton of pillows from the guest bedroom, the other couch, their room, and whatever had been on this couch to begin with must be cleared. Sam gathers them up in two armfuls and dumps them onto the unoccupied couch—the couch without a dusting of crumbs all over it and a Dean-shaped ass groove on its cushions. Quickly, Sam checks on Dean outside. One of the Vergara boys from down the block has stopped to chat, one foot on his bike and the other on the sidewalk. Despite the crutches, Dean uses his hands to tell a story. After a bird motion, Sam knows exactly which story and resumes the mission.

With a handheld vacuum, Sam executes a much needed tornado upon the layer of crumbs his brother has left behind. Any evidence of cookies, chips, toast, crackers, pie, and pretty much whatever else Dean demanded to eat because of his pain and suffering gets sucked up and obliterated.

Next is the blanket. Sam vacuums it with more care than the cushions. He folds and drapes it over Dean’s side, then moves onto vacuuming the pillows one by one. Halfway through, Sam opens up a window, allowing a chilly breeze to filter through. In between vacuums, he can hear Dean’s voice, not the specific words he speaks but the cadence to it nonetheless, the rhythm of the story still as fresh as the first time he told it.

Soon enough, the living room begins to smell clean again.

In the two minutes he has left, Sam passes through with the Swiffer, unsure how so much dust and hair accumulates when it’s only the two of them here.

As he swipes up the wet pad and stands up, he glances past the dining room.

A figure stands there, silent and skeletal.

Alarm digs into Sam’s spine, spiraling up into his head where it shrieks for action—SALT.

But he’s got no shotgun, no packet, no shaker, and it’s not possible, they laid down sigils and protective barriers years ago, back when a realtor had the keys to this place and Dean was focused on complaining about the lack of space…

Sam blinks, frozen in place.

The apparition is gone.

Only the harsh creak of the front door, followed by heavy, irregular, clanking steps causes him to flinch. He looks over at his brother, expecting to need to be caught up to speed on what just happened. At least, what Sam thinks just happened.

“Get my gun, Sam,” Dean rumbles, his voice all at once commanding and supremely influential.

Several things have caught them off guard in Chicago. A few were the pranks and deceptions of humans, which are never fun and always require police involvement. Most of their cases, however, have involved creatures and beings gone astray with the misfortune of preying in their neighborhood. While they might not hunt much anymore, nothing—absolutely nothing—has ever invaded their actual house.

Unless you count…

“Is it me?” Sam blurts out, halfway down the hall. He turns to face Dean, who stands in the living room, texting potential outlets for advice.

Shoulders bristling, Dean looks over his shoulder. “Of all the shit to come out of your mouth, Sammy, of course it ain’t you. I felt it and I…” Dean clears his throat and looks back to his phone, leaving his sentence unfinished.

He must have seen it the same way the television turns on by itself.

Does his arm hurt?

Sam can feel a migraine seeping into his temples. Resuming his assigned task, he allows the door to their bedroom to open without touching it, and the trunk from underneath the bed to slide out in the same fashion. Kneeling down, his mind races, flipping through the symptoms of a haunting or a rogue spirit. How many nights have passed as they lay naked and draped over each other, asleep and vulnerable within these walls? Has it been watching them this entire time, only to surface now with its message?

Walking back down the hall, Sam loads two shotguns with rock salt like he’s sleep walking.

“This thing is dead meat.” Leaning on his left crutch, Dean takes his gun, checking it over once and holding it as naturally as he usually holds the remote control out of Sam’s reach.

“It’s already dead,” Sam murmurs. His own gun feels familiar yet distant to him. He slips past Dean and stands in the same spot as the spirit. “We are on the same page, right? I saw a skeleton. A woman’s skeleton.”

Dean’s nose scrunches and his brow furrows. “How the fuck do you know it’s a woman?”

Without hesitation, Sam sighs his answer. “Women have a different shape to their pelvis. They have a wider pelvic cavity; men have a flatter pelvis. This is grade school stuff, Dean.”

“Yeah? Well maybe I’m testing you.”

“You forgot.”

“Your face forgot.”

“Can we stop?”

“Get to work.”

“Excuse me?”

“Lay down salt.”

Fuck the spirit. Putting Dean in his place becomes ten times more important. “Watch it,” he warns with a snarl. “Don’t care if you are on crutches, the least you can do is say please.”

Although signs of a potential challenge flash through Dean’s eyes, he scoffs and waves Sam off, conceding. “Whatever—would you _please_ assist me in making sure this thing becomes toast.”

“This is probably because you’re summoning shit with construction paper.”

“Oh, should I use cardstock instead? So sorry, really, just so, so, so sorry.”

“Bite me.”

“With relish,” Dean quips, hobbling towards the dining room table. “And for your information, know-it-all, I’ve been cutting out haunted houses for the museum. Joanna asked Pam, but then she went and had her baby.”

It makes no sense to put salt down when the foundation of the house has salt embedded in it. The procedures to make sure the house was sound were expensive and time consuming, but worth it. There had been several instances throughout their lives where they reenacted scenes like—did you remember to lock the back door? Only, in their lives, it was more, “Dean, did you remember that the last tick mark on that sigil needs to be curved facing east?”

Sometimes Dean remembered. Sometimes he didn’t.

When ordinary people didn’t remember to lock their back door, either nothing happened or they were robbed. When Sam or Dean didn’t remember to lay down a line, draw the sigils right, or triple bolt a door, either they broke an arm or someone died.

No pressure.

“She had the baby?” Sam pours and speaks.

They both skim over the wrongness of what they’re doing—Sam making salt lines on the windows and in front of the doors while Dean looks up sigils in a book they keep hidden underneath the dining room table.

“Nine pounder.”

“Yikes.”

“Heard she almost broke Bob’s hand.”

“I’d break more than his hand.”

“Well, that too.”

“Find anything?”

“These are variations,” Dean grumbles, shifting his weight. “We did tons of these. All the others are like synonyms.”

Finished in the kitchen, living room, and dining room, Sam quips, “Wow, a literary reference.”

“Grow up, Sam.”

“I will, and maybe one day, I can compare things to stuff.”

Dean attempts a swipe at Sam’s legs with a crutch, but Sam saw that coming from a mile away. If they ignore the problem long enough, it’ll go away, right? Maybe it was a fluke. Or a trick of the light.

“No cold spots,” Sam blurts out, betraying his initiative to sweep this problem under the rug. “I didn’t feel any. Did you?”

“No. Did you look at the clock?”

“Not at the time, but it’s working now. Usually they stick.”

“Usually, not always.”

“Spirit?”

“With salt _and_ sigils?”

“Death echo?” Sam leads Dean back to the couch. He takes Dean’s crutches and gun for a moment and lays them aside to help Dean sit down. Stuffing one pillow under Dean’s knee and another behind Dean himself, Sam lets out a long exhale.

“Never seen,” Dean murmurs, shifting around on the couch, “a death echo skeleton.”

“Always a first time. And you know those things don’t have to have patterns. Or the pattern could be once every twenty years. We haven’t been here for twenty.”

The shuffling on the couch cushions ceases when Sam sits next to Dean. Their hips and thighs touch once again. Denim meets cotton. It would almost be normal—their kind of normal—if two shotguns full of rock salt weren’t also on the couch with them. That used to be their kind of normal.

In the sliver of silence that slips between them, Sam expects it to be demolished by a fart joke. Or possibly a sarcastic remark involving what other things Dean thinks happens every twenty years, like blow jobs, because it must feel like it’s been that long since he’s had one.

Instead, Dean’s right arm curls around Sam’s waist. His left hand stays on his shotgun, balanced on the arm rest. The gun points to the dining room in wait.

“Not yet,” Dean says, sure as his aim.

 

They sat on the couch with their shotguns for two hours before Sam insists they move.

Dean snorts his reply, words being too much of an effort. The man could sleep through ten tornados and twenty televisions blasting Judge Judy. He could also awaken at the crinkle of a candy wrapper.

“The ghost,” Sam mumbles, elbowing Dean in the ribs. “What are we gonna do?”

“Sleep,” Dean growled.

“Get up.”

“Can’t.”

“Yes you can.”

“First of all, no, no I can’t. Bum knee. Second, I still can’t because _you_ took my crutches—again.”

“Stop hitting my legs with them.”

“Chicken legs.”

“Shut up.”

“Chicken butt.”

“Fine. I’ll get up and hunt this thing myself.” Three, two…

“The hell you will!” One. “You probably didn’t draw one of the sigils right in the first god damn place anyway. Always picking up after your ass. Where’s my cane?”

“You mean crutches.”

“Fuck no, can’t move around on those things.” Dean hoists himself to a standing position, with a small push from Sam of course, and surveys the living room. “The thing is—where do we fucking start?”

Also standing, Sam reaches behind the couch and extracts Dean’s cane. “You’re supposed to stay off your knee.”

“Or what? No more blow jobs?”

“More like another surgery.”

“So? That’s like vacation for me. I get anesthesia and the knife, and you bring me three meals a day in bed for two weeks.”

Sam considers whacking his brother over the head with his own cane, but resists, since he’s a generous, patient, kind, devoted…

“Two weeks of lying there,” Dean crows, hobbling around the living room with his cane in hand, “with only you to wait on me hand and foot. You know, maybe I should break my hand. Jerking off exhausts me. That can be your permanent job.”

“Right, because I’ll just be breaking your hand forever. And you know,” Sam follows Dean to the dining room, “I recall some bossy know-it-all telling me that _he_ should draw most of the sigils because _he_ was older.”

“Don’t try to shove this off on me, Sammy.”

“Don’t try to shove this off on _me_ , Dean. I was always better at sigils.”

On and on their squabbling continues. Lights switch on without hands on the dials. Sam stares at the spot of hardwood floor their unwelcomed visitor appeared. Noisily, Dean draws sigils on the doorframe of the backdoor. They were careful. Sam knows this. He would bet money and possessions on that fact. John Winchester can be thanked for many things, but one of the better attributes he passed onto his children was never to do anything half assed. Especially, Sam remembers, in their living space. Select motel rooms across the country can be considered some of the safest places on earth thanks to the sigils they left behind. Maybe they’ve made one or two mistakes here and there over the years, but not here.

Not here.

Kneeling, Sam runs his hand over the plain section of hardwood floor. Every caution was taken. Kevin double checked their work. The few hunters who have passed through have always commented on the unseen protective barriers and the feeling of calm within these walls.

None of the floor boards are warped. No malignant scent lingers and not a trace of soot, Sulphur, or ash rubs off. Sam chews on his bottom lip as he turns over the possibilities in his head.

“You know what I bet it was,” Dean calls out from the kitchen. “Those kids across the street bought a projector. I bet you twenty bucks that’s what we saw.”

Time after time, the easiest answer had proven to be the correct one.

With alarming desperation, Sam wants that explanation to be true. But he doesn’t feel convinced.

“Yeah,” he mumbled out. “But…”

“Those things can shine up to a mile away. God damn Halloween shit.” Dean continues to ramble on about how expensive bags of candy are at the Costco, and why should he pay to give candy to the snot-nosed kids of snot-nosed adults?

Sam knows what the rambling truly means.

Dean is done.

He has decided on an answer and that is that.

And for once, despite his hesitations, Sam can’t blame the evasion.

 

“Geniuses, ahead of their time, Sam.”

The bowl of popcorn between them on the couch jostles precariously every time Curly so much as breathes on screen. Dean laughs with abandon, partially because it wouldn’t be his ass on the floor picking up any spilled popcorn.

“Uh huh,” Sam sighs. This is their Saturday night, day ten of crutches experience. While crutches do make it an effort to do much else, Sam wouldn’t mind sitting in Monica’s café and reading for a couple of hours. He pitched the idea to Dean earlier, but was distracted by the outline of Dean’s cock in his pajama pants. Dean wasn’t even trying to score at the time; he sat down and Sam noticed the movement indicative of a boxer brief-free afternoon.

Before another short begins, Dean grabs a hunk of popcorn and shoves it into his mouth.

“Careful.” Brushing the excess off of Dean’s middle.

“What for?”

“Don’t make me bring out the vacuum.”

“Sammy, that can’t replace you.”

“Oh look, Dean, you missed some popcorn.”

“Where?”

“There.” Sam slaps Dean’s stomach with a satisfying, Stooge-like sharpness. “Ha!”

Scrubbing his face, Dean busts out, “Whoop whoop whoop whoop whoop!” He extends his hand, palm down, fingers spread. “Pick two.”

“Alright, one, two.”

With those two, Dean jabs Sam in the neck.

In a huff, Sam snarls, “Spread out!” A second later, he slaps Dean over his good knee.

“What was that for? I didn’t do nothin’! Hmph!”

“That was in case you do.”

“Urrrruff, ruff! Ruff!”

“You don’t scare me.”

“Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.”

“Oh, stop.” Laughter shakes Sam. “It’s getting late and you have PT tomorrow.”

“Who are you? The boss of me?”

“Yeah,” Sam quips and grabs Dean by an earlobe. “Matter of fact, I am.”

“Whoop whoop whoop!”

Letting go, Sam playfully smacks Dean upside the head. “Now get going. I’m not fighting with you in the morning.”

“Certainly!”

“You can have your fun, Dean, but the moment we get in bed, the Stooges say goodbye.”

“Why?” Dean whines, bracing himself on the couch to stand up. “I was having fun. You fun ruiner.”

“Because, if you want a repeat of earlier, nothing kills the mood more than hearing Curly while I’m blowing you.”

“…how about Shemp?”

“No, Dean.”

“Larry?”

“No, Dean.”

“Fine. Moe.”

“N-O.”

“Yeah,” Dean huffs, “you’re the Moe in this house.”

Sam can’t help what he does next. It’s too perfect of a moment.

He dumps the bowl of popcorn over Dean’s head and gives it a ping with the remote control. Over Dean’s howls of laughter, Sam declares, “Say that again, chucklehead.”

 

Teaching suits Sam.

He may not have a legitimate license to practice law, but experience and winning countless arguments against his father and brother have to count for something. When he began working for Juana at the firm, most of his credentials happened to have a little embellishment here and there. It has been difficult, in more ways than one, getting onto the grid after being off of it for most of their lives. Padding to a resume seemed like the least offensive yet most necessary step.

Sam also knows—incredibly well—that having a degree doesn’t guarantee intelligence, especially in law.

Over the years, he’s met some stupid as fuck lawyers.

And nothing can compensate for talent. Part of being a successful lawyer not only requires intelligence, but a sense of showmanship. Give a kid with a community college degree the opportunity to succeed and they’ll shine—if they’ve got the command of an audience, they’ll outrank Harvard graduates in five years’ time.

Applying this knowledge to himself, Sam tells himself the same fact before class: anyone can get a degree in law, and almost anyone can pass the bar exam. But not anyone can explain law or the judicial system in an interesting, challenging, and memorable way.

Sam teaches freshmen, 100-level courses three times a week.

His department head, Molly O’Toole, holds degrees from Princeton and Stanford. Every chance she gets, she reminisces with Sam about Palo Alto. She left California to teach at the University of Illinois in Chicago, not necessarily for prestige, but for a change in pace and scenery. Still, whenever it rains or the temperature dips below sixty degrees, she can be heard grumbling through the faculty office about the sunshine state and surfing.

The first week of teaching was a daunting affair. Sam simultaneously juggled his last two weeks at the firm and being tossed into an entirely new profession. Who was he to teach anyone about anything? This was nothing like training Kevin or Charlie on weaponry, sigils, or possession. Learning how to teach while trying to teach continues to be a challenge.

But at least Sam can fake being an established professor who has it together. It’s not much different than playing a FBI agent.

On Mondays and Wednesdays, from nine to eleven in the morning, Sam teaches Foundations of Law and Justice, followed by Legal Rights and Responsibilities from noon to two thirty. On Tuesdays, he has a Judicial Process class from three to five thirty, and a Law in Society class that stretches from six to nine thirty. His week rounds out with Race, Class, Gender, and the Law on Friday from nine to eleven.

Office hours are based around his classes, so Sam sticks around on Mondays and Wednesdays. However, he’s out by five, because dinner is at six and a certain someone hates having to set the table _and_ prepare the meal. Lately, Sam has been home a little early, since that certain someone is on day fourteen of crutches.

“I hate asparagus,” Dean grumbles, poking at the stalks on his plate. “My piss is gonna stink later.”

“Just eat it.” Sam tries to block the thought of the bathroom smelling like asparagus later on.

“I’m a grown man. I’m gonna order a pizza.”

“Do it. Go ahead.”

“I will.”

“Great, here. You can use my phone.”

“Fuck no, I have my own phone thank you very much.”

Finished playing babysitter, Sam picks up his plate and glass of white wine. He didn’t make their meal, but he selected it from the pre-made dinners at Costco, so that has to count for something. He paid for it, that’s for sure. Out of the selection under the heating lamp, individual portions of salmon with sides of mashed potatoes and asparagus seemed like the healthiest options. With some hot sauce and a sprinkle of salt, Sam thought it was okay.

Apparently, that’s not good enough for Dean.

“Where are you going?” he asks, perturbed that Sam has left the table.

“To my office,” Sam replies over his shoulder. “You can eat your pizza by yourself.”

Down the hallway, Sam’s steps creak over the floorboards. The plate feels warm and smooth in his left hand, while the wine sloshes cheerfully in his glass.

Looking out at the space of floor in front of his office, his eyes pick up a milky ray of light—a nearly silver sliver, spidery and nothing more than a slice of porcelain. No lamp in his office emits such a hue. Frozen still two steps away, Sam’s eyes anxiously pursue details. The ray is singular. Yet the door remains wide open. Something casts that shape across the floor.

Sam’s blood runs cold.

His fingertips press into the objects he holds. Within the time of an inhale, he sends a message.

 _It’s here_.

And from behind, without a sound, a reply arrives.

 _Six. Three_.

Sam doesn’t need to turn around to know that Dean stands no more than two steps away. In front, Sam will approach, giving Dean time to rotate to cover his right. After that, it is all instinct—precise, distinct training and experience. It would all fit into place, requiring only a footstep more…

Silently, the plate and glass descend and land on the floor.

His senses heighten, muscles steadily tense, and he clenches the fork in his hand, the only available weapon. Uncontrollable dread scrapes through, starting in the hairs over his arms and festering in the base of his spine. Beastly energy radiates through the walls, seeping into their home, cementing its filth into exposed corners and crevices.

No cold spots. No freeze in time. Nothing like usual, everything out of place, out of the ordinary—

A skeleton!

The same from before, more hideous hovering in the center of the office, amongst bloodless vapors.

It hangs there, its bones distorted and infected with shadow. Long, whips of cartilage twist and creak. Rattling vertebrae grind together, straining to turn the polluted skull. Hollow eye sockets focus, focus to glut itself on the vision of Sam.

Rippling, shuddering vines of veins, nerves, and arteries devour every inch of bone. Winding and wrapping, arterial tracks snap into place. Some twining tubes of tissue stretch. The jaw unhinges, creating a depraved and haunted smile. One revolting jolt propels the neck forward, leaving the open jaw lolling, unceasing in its appearance of unabashed laughter.

Fibrous ligaments heave out, piercing bones. Flexing, still in its guffawing pose, the jaw realigns, setting itself in a series of splintering, sickening cracks and pops.

Ribs enlaced with muscle, organs inflating within their cage, the torso trembles. The bulbous skull shivers in response. With the neck slack, the shoulders roll, and one unsound arm rises to extend a sharp, accusing finger.

The finger points at Sam.

 _Click_.

Dean points the barrel of his Colt at the mass of muscles and veins suspended in air. His features wind into a vicious scowl, upper lip exposing a hint of his canines.

Without hesitation, Dean pulls the trigger. The kickback barely registers in the muscles of his forearm. His aim proves exquisite, ruthless, and efficient. Two silver bullets puncture their marks—in the heart and the specific space between empty eyes. Each bullet lodges true.

Not a flinch.

Not one physical reaction.

“I’ll torch it,” Dean shouts, livid. Leaning onto his cane, he digs into his pocket.

Despite the sound, the threat, and the attack, the thing continues, unyielding, the tip of its finger curling as if to beckon Sam into its circle of rotting energy.

A match hisses.

Perfect in its blaze, fire races towards its victim. It burns in a circle, flames erupting.

The lower portion of the jaw wobbles, causing the mouth to flap open and close. Within seconds, the rest of it jerks, plunged into a fit of stuttering, unnatural, jerking movements. Shaking violently, the skull threatens to pop off of its resting place. Fire fuels its agony and stimulates the sprouting of hair over the repulsive scalp.

All at once, the fire dies.

And Dean shoves one arm in front of Sam, guarding him, covering his heart.

Sam tries to protest, only to be plagued by an overwhelming ringing in his ears. The clamor increases, forcing his palms to block out the noise. Dean does not react, because he does not hear the noise. How? Every shrill death ring tolls, thunderous against his ear drums, growing louder and louder and louder still!

Until Sam cries out—at the same moment one eye pops into one socket.

Beating inside the opening, the eye throbbed, rolling in every direction. It was blue and without focus, exacerbating each tremor from the body. The shoulders shimmied almost comically, but it was the eye, the wild, filmy, vulture eye.

Rough hands grip onto Sam’s shoulders, dragging him away from the blown screen of the desktop computer. The energy in the room lacerates Sam, gutting him from throat to belly. His insides feel as if they spill out, inflamed and infested. All of this under the unbearable noise…!

The second eye pops in.

One impossible heartbeat starts.

Without skin, tight, sinews of muscle stretch over its high cheek bones, teeth exposed.

Blue eyes stare.

In its powerful, horrifying stance, it tells its name to Sam, slipping it under the pounding of its hideous heart.

Deanna Campbell.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm a little late for halloween, but at least better than never!
> 
> thanks to J, T, and E for reading through and helping me out. I listened to Christopher Lee read several Poe stories to try and get the creepy feel to this. I don't often write horror, so hopefully this is alright. Let me know? Comments are love! 
> 
> More to continue with this arch, because I think she's got so much potential. :D
> 
> Happy Halloween!


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